


Ain't You a Little Young to Be a Widow?

by PipGirl



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: F/M, Loss of Virginity, May/December Relationship, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 22:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8685406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipGirl/pseuds/PipGirl
Summary: Virgin f!Courier decides to Black Widow Benny, but he ain't making it easy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to a prompt on the Fallout Kink Meme.

_You can do this._

It had long ago become her mantra. Raiders had killed her parents when she was fourteen. An uncle had taken her in and a year later been murdered by Legionaries. She'd then joined a caravan that had been wiped out nearly to a person by deathclaws. Each time she had come near to death, and each time she had managed to scurry aside at the last moment. She was still just a child in her own mind, really, barely eighteen, and had already faced more seeming defeats and impossible obstacles than people living in the heart of the civilized NCR would see in a lifetime. Each time she'd thought her life over, but each time she had pulled herself back to her feet with those same four words.

_You can do this._

She took what jobs she could to afford food and the occasional bed; being small and fit and agile had gotten her steady work with the Mojave Express. Steady work with the Mojave Express had gotten her two bullets in the brain. She had woken to Doc Mitchell explaining what had happened, knowing that now she was going to have to fight back from closer to the grave than she'd ever been-- in it, almost for good-- to get back on her feet and find her attempted killer.

But she could, she _would,_ do this.

In the wasteland, experience counted far more than age; she had accrued numerous survival skills rapidly over her short life. A gun didn't care how old its handler was. Neither did money. Both served her well in her chase after the man who shot her. It was only now, though, that her courage began to falter; now, when she stood inside the Tops, inside the suite of the man who'd tried to kill her.

Her skills with a gun could speak for themselves, and very often did. Her wasteland savvy could hold its own against anyone's, too. Just about anything else she could fake.

What she couldn't fake was...well....

Well. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Lure Benny to his suite with the promise of sex and kill him privately, quietly. She'd seen plenty of other women use their bodies and charm to bend men every which way. She emulated them carefully, played Benny like she'd seen other men played, and he'd fallen for it hard. And here they were, on their way to his bedroom, clothing laying out a trail on the floor behind them, both breathing hot and heavy and headed inexorably toward his bed.

_You can do this you can do this you can do this...._

For once, she wasn't sure she believed her mantra. She'd told herself this was no big deal, that giving up her virginity for the chance to kill her killer was worth it, that at her age she was lucky someone in the wasteland hadn't already taken it from her by force; surely a clumsy tumble with the reward of revenge wasn't the worst way to lose it. Now she didn't know if she could bluff her way through this, but she was determined to try.

By all she could tell, Benny knew what he was doing, which made her foolish attempt at seduction all the more dangerous. Maybe he would just think she was bad at sex, not see her faltering moves as the unbacked ploy they were. If he realized she wasn't the seductress she was pretending to be, if he began to suspect her motives were anything more than base lust...no, she told herself firmly. You've seen enough to know what you're doing. _You can do this._

She wrapped her hands around the back of his neck as he kissed her. She had kissed before, boys, never men. A few quick exploratory and sloppy attempts at romance that went nowhere and only left her wiping her mouth off and wanting-- what? She hadn't known, exactly, but now she was getting a good idea of what had been lacking. Benny didn't grab and seize and drag wet lips across her face with no apparent aim or ambition other than trying to get her to let him fuck her. Instead his lips were firm, kneading, drawing her lower lip between them with gentle and expert pressure. This was not a boy using a fast wet kiss as the total extent of foreplay. This was a man who kissed her as if the kiss itself was the be-all and end-all of the exercise. This kiss might lead anywhere, or nowhere.

This kiss had its own purpose. And that purpose was, evidently, to drive her mad with wanting.

And that had become a very big problem. Somewhere between the making of her plan and the ride up in the elevator, something had changed. The way Benny had treated her, the way he'd touched her, made her realize she wanted this experience for the experience itself: she wanted this, not for the chance to kill him, but because she wanted to feel this, to taste this, to revel in this. If a kiss could be so much greater than what she had experienced up to now, then how much more could sex be? She could be like most other girls her age and lose her virginity to equally inept boys, or god forbid she could lose it to a raider raping her in the desert...or she could follow this amazing temptation. She'd given up her plan of revenge, and the weapon she'd smuggled in lay discarded in the pile of clothing near the door. Sneaking the pistol in seemed like a hazy memory now, like killing him had never been her intent in the first place. All there was now was this, this touching, this kissing, this moment.

Benny touched his lips to the very corner of her mouth, the barest tip of his tongue darting out to caress the dimple there. She parted her lips involuntarily and he brushed his tongue along the edge of her upper lip, almost letting her close her lips to kiss him in return before drawing away. She moaned in frustration and leaned forward, trying to capture his mouth with her own. He chuckled at her eagerness and relented. She kissed him hard, demanding more, and he let her layer her kisses on his lips while his hands trailed up and down her sides, sliding over the thin fabric of the fancy dress she'd worn for the occasion. Slowly he began to gather the fabric of her skirt upward until he'd exposed one long thigh and his hand rested on her hip, holding the folds of her dress in place. She lifted the exposed leg and wrapped it around his. She might not know the steps, but she knew she wanted to learn the dance.

Benny nuzzled in close to her ear, his lips brushing her neck below her earlobe, his breath warm. She gave a silent gasp and let her head fall back. He kissed her throat, put his mouth to her ear, and paused. "So," he murmured, "just how far are you going to let this little stunt go?"

Her eyes shot open just as he pulled his face back to look at her. She saw the amusement in his dark eyes, and though he was clearly getting a laugh out of the situation at her expense, his expression didn't seem cruel. "S-s-stunt?" she repeated, her voice almost a squeak.

He smiled indulgently and rubbed her hip where he held her skirt up, the other hand curving around her ribcage. She was a tiny thing in his hands; how did she ever think she could convince him she was a woman and not just some bumbling little girl playing dress up? "Yeah. Stunt. Charade. Really bad bluff. You need to stay away from the poker tables, Pussycat." He smiled again and touched his fingertip to the center of her lower lip, pulling it down just slightly in a teasing promise.

She tried to think on her feet, but her head was still swimming from his touch. "I-- I--"

He grew serious and straightened a bit, drawing back without actually moving away from her, his eyes glancing downward and back up to her face. He swept his hands up and down her torso again, her thighs, her skirt settling back into place as he loosed the fabric. "Okay, Pussycat, give it up. Where is it?"

She blushed and shook her head, at a loss. Already she missed his heat and nearness. She shivered in cold and a little fear.

He looked her over again, taking in the slinky dress, the thin fabric. He glanced back at the trail of clothing they'd left behind them. She looked, too, and he followed her gaze to the light jacket she'd let fall in the floor. He walked over to it and picked it up, weighing it in his hand. He reached into an inside pocket and drew out her pistol. "Bad move, honey baby," he said, unloading the pistol and letting the bullets drop to the floor. "If you're gonna off a guy, you never let your gun out of your hands."

"But...." She put her hand to her mouth. How could she possibly explain this? _I was going to kill you until you kissed me?_

He looked down at the now-empty gun in his hand, clearly considering. "You're too smart for this, Pussycat. You'd know better than to give up your weapon with the job still undone." He put the gun on the bar top and came back to where he'd left her, standing against the wall near his bedroom door, still shivering. "What exactly are you after here, baby?"

She didn't know how to answer, so she let one timid hand reach out and touch his chest. He looked down at where her little fingers rested on his shirt front and took half a step into her touch. "What do you want from me, honey baby?" he asked again, his voice a low rumble under her hand.

"I-- I want you." She looked up at him, her eyes wide and fearful. "I want you to-- to touch me. To-- make love to me."

Slowly he reached up and covered her hand with his own large, tanned one. "Do you, now?"

She nodded.

He put his forefinger beneath her chin and touched her lower lip with his thumb, parting her lips again slightly. "Have you ever had sex before?"

She shook her head. No use lying now.

"And you want the man who shot you to be your first. That it? That's kinda twisted, baby cakes."

She blushed. "I meant to kill you. I did. But-- but I can't." She looked away. "Now I just want-- I just want--"

He stepped in closer still. "You want what, honey baby? You want this?" He dropped both hands to her thighs and started sliding her skirt back up her legs.

She immediately felt a flush of wetness between them. "Ah-- yes. Yes. I want...." She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, one cheek to the wall, her mouth open, panting.

He tilted his face down and whispered into her ear, his breath warm and promising. "It's been awhile since I deflowered someone, honey baby. Not a lot of virgins in Vegas." He held her skirt up on one side again and trailed the other hand over so that his fingertips brushed the inside of her thigh. She shook. "But I'll do my best."

She whimpered and reached up for his shoulders, pulling at him. He let her guide him a little, vaguely, giving her some say but none of the control. Her hands fluttered and grasped at him, but he would set the pace, not she. She surrendered to that, going limp in his hands and letting her own body react as it would. His hands, too, were expert, dancing over her body and making it sing. He grew more aggressive, his hands firmer, with pauses between his caresses as if he expected her to respond. When she didn't, when all she could do was manage to stay upright under the inundation of pleasure, he pulled back again and gave her an almost sideways glance. "Pussycat," he said, "you serious?"

"Hnh?" It was as much coherence as she could manage.

He closed the distance again, but this time his hands stayed steady on her shoulders. "You been tellin' the truth, haven't you?" He seemed absolutely puzzled by the concept.

 _Not all of us lie every time we open our lips,_ she thought, but there was no way she could have gotten the words out, and certainly not in order.

He leaned in again, his lips close to hers, his eyes level with her own. "You-- you really want this? And you've really never-- you really want me to be your first?"

She whimpered and nodded, pulling again at the back of his neck.

He didn't move even though she was tugging on him as hard as she could. "Pussycat. You sure you want this?"

She gave an almost angry, mewing cry and jerked at his neck. He still didn't budge, all her strength still not enough for him to notice, but slowly, oh so slowly, he came in to kiss her again. This time his lips brushed hers chastely, barely a touch, but electric like she'd never known.

"Gotta tell ya, Pussycat," he said, touching his forehead to hers and slipping his hands back down to her hips, "I thought you were puttin' me on again there. Everybody in Vegas's got an angle." He chuckled again, low, pleasant, and then he raised up and took her hands. "Honey baby, we gotta do this right." He backed away from her, but this time drew her along with him. Walking backwards, still watching her with a gentle smile, he led her into the bedroom. Quietly he sat her on the edge of his bed, then knelt before her. He slid her skirt above her knees and kissed the insides of her thighs, his rough hands caressing the rest of their silky length.

She was shaking fit to burst. He took his sweet time, tasting her skin, touching his fingertips along her legs, letting his hot breath warm her exposed flesh. She moaned under his touch, his lips, his hands, and her own hand found his hair of its own accord. She ran her hand through it, her pale fingers flashing through the strands of brown, the colors suddenly brighter than they'd been before. She felt as if all of her senses were heightened. She was rumpling his perfect styling, but he didn't seem to mind. He kissed higher up her thigh and her fingers tightened involuntarily; she felt him grin against her skin.

He stood over her and gently pressed back on her shoulders. She obeyed, as if she could do anything else, and lay across his bed. He lifted her a few inches and moved her so that her legs no longer hung off the side, then lay next to her. His jacket sat rumpled with hers in the floor in the other room, so her head pillowed against his shirted arm, the fabric fine beneath her cheek as she turned toward him. He kissed her again, this time his tongue teasing at her lips. She parted them, but he didn't plunge into her as she expected him to do; instead, he traced her bottom lip with the barest tip, then took the lip between his own in another kiss. It was an amazing feeling, letting go, turning all of her pleasure over to him. His hands, his lips, his tongue sought to bring her every joy he could think of, and all she had to do was luxuriate in it. She turned into him and thrust her hips against his almost mindlessly. He pulled away, smiling, and with his hand on her hip turned her away from him again. "Easy, Pussycat," he murmured. "We got all night, you and me." He swept his hand up and down her curves languidly, heating her blood but soothing her at the same time until she felt like she was floating. He petted her side, down her waist, over the swell of her hip, back up again; eventually on one of these passes he continued past her hip and down the back of her thigh. He pulled gently, turning her and bringing her leg forward so that her knee rested across his hip.

The new position exposed her panties to the air, cold against the wetness that had long ago soaked them. She whimpered at the sensation, one more new and forbidden feeling amongst the long list her attempted murderer was lavishing on her. He stroked her long thigh, from his full palm petting her to just the tips of his fingers brushing lightly, raising goosebumps. He moved the hand back up, this time pausing to cup her buttock, then farther up, taking her skirt with it to expose her round hip and flimsy underwear.

His hand came to rest, finally, on the side of her breast. She gave a little cry and tried to turn, tried to force the breast into his hand. "In such a hurry, Pussycat?" he purred. He kneaded her flesh and she squealed softly, nodding her head, unable to answer otherwise. He laughed again, amused, pleased, but without malice. She was grateful, so grateful, that he didn't find her inexpertise something to ridicule. His hand left her breast to caress the side of her face, smoothing back her hair, and she closed her fingers around his wrist, trying to guide it back to her breast. He hesitated, then gave in and let her place his palm over her full breast. He kneaded her again, testing, careful not to hurt her. She moaned again and arched her back, thrusting upward into his hand. He lowered his head and mouthed at her nipple through the fabric of her dress. She clenched at his shirt and panted out little cries of pleasure as he worked her.

He released her and raised up, looking down at her hand tangled in his shirt at his shoulder. "Am I wearing too many clothes?" he asked, the smile back. She nodded and he sat up. To her relief he wasted no time in unbuttoning and discarding the shirt, and to her further delight he undid his belt. Before unzipping his pants, though, he turned back to her, clearly checking to make sure that he wasn't rushing her.

He needn't have worried. The hazy look in her half closed eyes told him he was proceeding just fine. Just in case, though, he took a little time as he finished disrobing. He took a moment, too, to stand by the bed after, letting her get used to the idea that this was really happening, that she was in a man's bed, that he was ready-- really, really ready-- to take her.

She'd seen men naked before, though never intentionally, and never erect. She didn't know what she'd expected, but the sight of Benny's hard length made her even wetter, and she hadn't thought that possible. She reached for him and he obeyed, lowering himself back into her arms. She looked down at his cock and bit her lip. "Would you like to touch me, honey baby?" he asked. She nodded, and he took her hand in his, guessing correctly that she needed both the guidance and the permission to do this.

He wrapped her fingers around his cock, then helped her stroke him, long strokes, small sweeps around the head, curling her fingers around his balls on the downstroke. Before long she was touching him all on her own, the concentration on her face adorable, her eyes unwavering from the sight of his cock twitching in her hand all due to her attentions. "Mmm, honey baby," he groaned, letting his head fall back, "you sure you ain't done this before?"

She shook her head to answer as if he were serious, her attention never wavering from what she was doing to him. He placed his hand over hers to still it. He rolled over onto her for another flutter of kisses, then raised up, bringing her with him so that she was sitting. Still looking into her eyes, he reached behind her and unzipped her dress, letting it slide from her shoulders. She shivered a little, from the cool air but more from anticipation. She raised her hips so he could slide the dress into the floor. He seemed content to leave it at that, but her body demanded that she quicken the pace. She didn't think she could stand much more of these gentle caresses, of these warming kisses that left her writhing for something more. She unhooked her bra herself and cast it into the floor.

When the air hit her breasts, hardening her nipples, she suddenly was keenly aware of what she was doing, that she was nearly naked, exposed, to a man. Not just any man, either, but one who'd tried to kill her. She had a sudden urge to cover herself, but before she could he was kneeling in the floor before her again, this time cupping her breasts in both hands, thumbing the nipples until they were hard from his touch rather than the cold. He kissed her stomach as his hands worked their magic, and within moments her hesitation was gone again. Before she knew what was happening she was on her back once more, moaning and breathy, her hands in his hair and his lips on her breasts, her breastbone, everywhere at once, it seemed.

He kissed her lips, one hand trailing down her tummy, touched his lips to her ear, traced the lobe with his tongue. Then his lips were back to hers and his hand slid lower until he curled his fingers over her sex.

She froze again, but he made no further moves except to keep kissing her. He just rested his hand there, its heat welcome after the chill of the air against her wetness, and she relaxed again and kissed him back. When he knew that she was ready again, he moved his fingers, finding her clit beneath the fabric of her panties and circling over it firmly.

She cried out against him and bucked her hips; she'd touched herself before, but it had never felt like this. Having someone else touch her...someone she should never let touch her...old enough to be her father, her attempted murderer...it was wrong, so wrong, and she was reminded of the saying that forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest. She whimpered and moved her lips to his cheek, his jawline, his throat.

He did indeed taste sweet.

He circled her nub a few more times, then slowly started pulling her panties down. She let him, raising her hips again so he could drop them in the floor with the rest of their clothes. He returned his fingers to her pussy, this time stroking up and down her folds, spreading her juices everywhere he touched. Now when he touched her clit she nearly screamed. She squirmed, her ass finding a cool wet spot on the sheets, so ready for him that she was literally dripping.

His fingers hesitated over her opening, then he nuzzled her cheek and asked, "Have you ever had anything inside you?"

She shook her head.

He nodded. "Then what would you rather have first, baby? My hand, or--"

She answered with a firm tug at his hips, trying to pull him over on top of her.

He chuckled again. "Fair enough," he said softly, then covered her body with his own.

She pulled at his hips but still he took his time, his hands wandering, stopping here to pinch her nipple, pausing there to soothe her face. At last, he asked, "Are you sure you're ready, Pussycat?" She nodded desperately, and he reached between them and slid himself in.

She screamed as he entered her, not from the slight pain of her first penetration, but from a rocking orgasm that swelled up around his cock and burst outward through her body. She practically convulsed beneath him in her first orgasm. He held one forearm above her head and rested his other hand on the side of her face as she rode out the waves, the concern on his face giving way to soft affection. When she fell still, he stroked her cheek. "Was that good?"

"Hnh," she replied, nodding again.

Now the grin he gave her was devilish. "That's real good, honey baby, but you ain't seen nothin' yet." He began thrusting, slow and steady, letting her get used to the feel of him inside her, and she moaned with each stroke. He thrust a little more deeply, hitting bottom for the first time, and she gave a sharp cry. He paused to make sure she was all right, but she clawed at his hips to encourage him. He started up the slow rhythm again, taking her cries each time he struck her core for the signs of pleasure that they were.

When she was fully aroused again and pulling at him, he increased the pace, only a little at first, then fast enough that his breath grew rough and panting. She grew even more excited at his arousal, the thought that it was her body, that it was she, driving him to orgasm. Sweat formed on his brow, turning the tousled hair at his forehead to soft curls, his eyebrows drawn in concentration as he paced himself. She roiled in it, in the passion on his face, in the feel of him between her legs, in the feel of the next orgasm welling inside her. It exploded suddenly, catching her by surprise, her body stiffening beneath him, around him. He smiled indulgently and lowered his head to lip at her neck, his rhythm never wavering.

She came down from this orgasm and he began to slow, his strokes firm, deliberate. She was on the verge of growing sore from his thrusts, but he seemed to know that already. He brushed his fingers through her hair again. "You ready, honey baby?" he asked, his voice rough and strained. She nodded and he thrust into her sharply, hard, hitting bottom again and almost painful, but in her arousal the pain transformed into something else, something exquisitely pleasurable and sweet. A few more hard strokes and then he buried himself inside her, his head arching back, and he gave a long, low groan that seemed to vibrate through her. Even as he came, another orgasm swelled and rolled through her, arching her back to match him, her hips pushing to meet his as he gave a few last thrusts against her. He leaned over her, his head down, panting heavily, before slowly pulling out. She whimpered as he withdrew completely, suddenly empty and wanting.

He seemed to know that, too, though, and he lay down beside her and pulled her against his chest. He kissed the top of her head, his breath still rough as it ruffled her hair. When their breathing calmed and she felt she could speak again, she asked him in a small voice, "What happens now? Should I-- should I leave?"

He raised up slightly to look at her. "Leave? Why? Got somewhere better to be?"

She smiled shyly, but said, "Don't you want me to go?"

Slowly he grinned, the devilish look back in full force. "Honey baby, I don't know what you expected, but I ain't near done with you yet. That was just a taste of what the ol' Ben-man can do for you." He leaned in for another kiss, promises in it that she was suddenly sure he would keep.


End file.
